Cracked
by rosiesbar
Summary: Hawkeye and Trapper stumble across a crate of eggs, and, the hopes of a break from powdered eggs, decide to hatch the chicks. However, their venture turns tragic in a twist that stays with Hawkeye for years later, only to resurface when he least expects it. (First 2 chapters are pure fluff, then, in true MASH fashion, it turns darker. Spoilers for the finale in Chapter 4.)
1. Hatched

Hatched

"I can't believe someone just _left _them!"

"Tell me about it! They're probably kickin' 'emselves right now."

"I think I'll have mine poached. No – scrambled, on toast."

Radar leaned in closer to the small crate of eggs that Hawkeye and Trapper had brought back from Seoul. He picked one out, rolled it in his palm, held it up to the light of his hurricane lamp. Then he chose another. And another. "Oh boy…" The doctors had been delighted when they'd found the eggs abandoned under a stall after the daily market had packed up, but now Radar was about to cancel their breakfast plans. "I don't think you will, Sirs. These eggs have got chickens in 'em."

Hawkeye stared at him. "Chickens? Real live chickens? Are you sure?"

"'Course I'm sure! I live on a farm, don't I? When I'm not livin' here, I mean."

"Damn." Trapper snapped his fingers. "I could'a killed for an omelette."

"No – wait!" Hawkeye grabbed Radar. He had that manic gleam in his eyes that Radar had learned to fear. "This is perfect! We could have a limitless supply! No more powdered eggs! No more rubber omelettes! Radar, you're our expert here. Could we _hatch _them?"

Radar frowned and studied another egg. "Gee, I don't know, Hawkeye. I mean, I guess it depends how long they were out there. They might not even be alive. But it was a warm day for spring an' all, so maybe."

"YES!"

"But we'd have to build an incubator, on the double! Keep 'em warm, y'know." The doctors looked at one another blankly and Radar rolled his eyes. "Lucky for you guys, I know how."

Hawkeye was positively vibrating. "Radar, I could kiss you! Imagine! Our own chicken farm turning out fresh eggs. Fresh, perfect and delicious!"

Trapper shrugged. "Or they will be until Igor gets his hands on 'em."

"The nurses won't know how to thank us!"

"I'm sure you'd be glad to give 'em some pointers."

Radar ignored the raucous conversation and gathered up the crate, wondering how long it would take Colonel Blake to notice that his two top surgeons had starting moonlighting in poultry farming. He headed out the back, and Trapper shot Hawkeye a knowing look. "You're really serious about this, aren't ya?"

"Well, why not? You said yourself, you'd kill for an omelette!" He grinned and grasped Trapper's arm excitedly. "And not just that – think how _cute _they look when they first hatch! I can't _wait _until those little shells start to crack!"

Trapper shook his head. "Somethin's cracked around here, for sure – and I don't think it's the eggs!"

* * *

By that very evening, Radar wandered into the Swamp with what looked like a tiny wooden dresser, about two feet tall and with little drawers in the front. Each one housed several eggs, and a hot water bottle in the bottom section provided the warmth.

"You gotta rotate the drawers so they all get even amounts of heat," he was explaining. "And change the hot water as often as you can, or they're gonna get too cold."

"I'm not gettin' up in the middle of the night!" Trapper piped up from his cot. "I had two kids – I'm not losin' any sleep over this crackpot scheme of yours!"

"Spoil-sport!" Hawkeye stuck his tongue out. "Thanks, Radar. I can't believe you threw this together in a few hours!"

Radar shrugged. "I built one before. Actually I built about a dozen. We lost all the power in the barn one year and looked it up in this real old book Uncle Ed had. Where do you want it, anyway?"

"Just over here by the still."

"Hawk…" Trapper spoke up again. "If Frank finds that, he'll kick our butts. I'm not goin' on report for _your_ chicken farm!"

Hawkeye sighed. "He's right. I'll empty my footlocker. They can live in there."

Trapper huffed and sulked and rolled over to focus on his book as the other two rearranged Hawkeye's side of the swamp and set the incubator down in its new home and Radar continued to advise Hawkeye on egg care, reminding him to turn them regularly and warning him that not all of them would hatch. At last, the locker was closed and Radar had gone to catch up on his _actual_ job, and Trapper looked up to find Hawkeye standing at the foot of his cot with an armful of clothes and other junk. "What?!"

"Got any room in your footlocker, Trap? Mine's kinda full."

Trapper sighed and opened the lid.

* * *

It was three in the morning when Hawkeye woke up. He thought it a little odd – he wasn't a light sleeper – and he sat listening for a few seconds for the sound that had stirred him.

There it was again.

A smile spread across his face and he crept out of his bed, careful so as not to wake Frank. It had been three weeks now since he had installed his very own incubator in the Swamp, and the excitement at what he had just heard simply had to be shared. He nudged Trapper awake. "Wake up, honey! The contractions have started!"

Trapper gasped and his eyes flew open. "Don't worry, Louise! I'll make the call!"

Hawkeye had to try not to laugh and wound up rolling on the floor, clutching his sides. Finally getting his bearings, Trapper scowled at him and hit him with a pillow. "Don't _do _that! I've had two kids! My nerves are shot!" Giving the giggling Hawkeye an extra smack with the pillow for a good measure, he turned over.

"Trapper – the _eggs_!"

"I'll have mine on toast."

"How could you even joke about that? As if I'd let you _eat _our babies!" He tossed his head back in mock disdain.

"You really have lost it…" Trapper muttered, finally allowing himself to be pulled out of bed.

They crept over to Hawkeye's footlocker and lifted the lid. Trapper fumbled with a torch and Hawkeye gently pulled open one of the drawers. A tiny, damp ball of yellow fluff wriggled in the remains of its shell, blinked its little black eyes at them, opened its beak and cheeped. Hawkeye grinned and squeezed Trapper's arm. "I'm a mommy!"

Trapper narrowed his eyes at him. "How come you get to be the mommy? I found 'em too!"

"Because they hatched in _my _footlocker. You can have the next ones."

"Funny. My wife said the same thing."

Another egg shifted in its bed of shredded paper, and Hawkeye tugged at Trapper's sleeve frantically as the shell cracked. "Look! Look there's another one!" He was practically shaking with excitement.

"Will you calm down? They're only _birds _for Christ's sake!"

Hawkeye clutched his chest. "I'm sorry – I had no idea childbirth was so exhausting."

Trapper rolled his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time. "Hawkeye?"

"Hmm?"

A tiny smile threatened to appear at the corner of Trapper's lips. "Just shut up and watch, would ya?"

And so they watched. They watched for quite a while.

A creak from Frank's cot broke their trance, and they slammed the locker closed and sat on it. Frank's light flicked on, and the Major glared at them from under its harsh glow. "Why are you two out of bed?"

Trapper piped up first. "Uh… I told Hawkeye a scary story and he wet his pants."

Hawkeye turned to protest but then thought better of it.

"Yeah, right," Frank sneered. "Real likely!"

"Oh yeah?" Trapper tilted the torch up to his face and pulled an evil expression. Frank recoiled and squeaked in terror.

"Would you mind, Frank? Some of us need to change our shorts."

Frank grimaced, but shot both Captains a glare. "You two are up to something," he deduced, "and I intend to find out what."

Trapper smirked. "Good luck with that, Frank. We're sure you'll crack it sooner or later."


	2. Cracked

Cracked

"Hawkeye, this is ridiculous!"

"It's just for a while until Frank stops getting his khakis in a twist!"

With a great deal of effort, they lifted Hawkeye's footlocker into the back of the truck. The cheeping coming from inside was now impossible to conceal. Hawkeye jumped in alongside and flung a blanket over it in a futile attempt. "I had no idea chickens made so much noise!"

"They can't live in your footlocker forever."

"I know!"

"And I ain't hikin' all the way up to Rosie's three times a day to feed the li'l critters either!"

Hawkeye's face fell.

"I'll do it _twice_. You take care of the rest. They were _your _idea."

"Trapper – incoming." Hawkeye sat on the covered locker and began to whistle a jaunty tune in a vain effort to cover the frenzied chirping that came from within. Trapper turned just in time to see Frank storming over with a murderous look on his face.

"Morning, Frank."

"Oh, pish posh!" Frank said by way of greeting. "You two are a _disgrace _to this man's army!"

"Could we get that in writing? I told my draft board but they wouldn't listen."

Frank swayed on his heels in a way that he thought made him look clever and contemplative but actually just made him look drunk. "I know you two are up to something! There is _corn _all over the floor of our tent. And it _reeks_. And I'm not referring to the smell of your socks!"

Hawkeye and Trapper exchanged glances. "I'll get right on that, Frank," Hawkeye promised. "The place'll be spotless in no time, I swear."

The pair of them gave him their best innocent expressions. Frank stared back at them. Then he stared at the box Hawkeye was sitting on – the box that was currently making suspicious cheeping sounds. Frank's jaw dropped and he pointed accusingly at Hawkeye. "You've got a _bird _in your locker!"

Trapper gasped in mock horror. "Frank!"

Hawkeye went wide eyed and clasped his hands over his belly. "How _dare _you gossip about something like that?! Does my reputation mean nothing to you?!"

Frank went bright red. "I'm telling Colonel Blake!"

Trapper shook his head. "And to think we kept schtum when we found Hotlips hiding under your cot!"

"Oh, you... _you… ARGH_!"

As Burns stormed off to Henry's office, Hawkeye clambered down from the truck. "Well, I guess that solves the problem of how we tell Henry we've got a locker full of poultry." Said locker continued to chirp and cheep with increasing volume. "Ok kids, quiet down! We're going home!"

* * *

Trapper lay on his cot and tried to ignore the tickling sensation as Hawkeye raised another chick up to his face in his cupped hands.

"You know," Hawkeye was saying, "I'm kinda glad Frank caught us. This is way more fun now we're not hiding them in a box!" The chick in his hands hopped onto Trapper's shoulder and began making its way unsteadily across his chest. "Oh, Trapper, look at this!"

Several other members of the brood were currently scratching about on the floor, polishing off the corn Hawkeye had spilled that morning, while others were nestled in his lap as he sat cross-legged on the floor. He scooped up another and lifted it up, and that one hopped onto Trapper as well.

"See, they like you!"

Trapper sighed. "Will you get these goddamn birds off of me?"

Hawkeye gave him a look of mock horror and cuddled the third chick shortly before placing it on Trapper's belly. "Trapper, please! Not in front of the kids!"

"Oh, Christ!"

Trapper's sentiments were echoed by Henry Blake, who stepped into the Swamp onto to be faced immediately by several tiny, cheeping pom-poms on legs scurrying hither and thither all over the floor – some yellow, and some black – and getting into everything.

Henry stood in the midst of the flurry of tiny poultry, hands on hips, regarding the petting zoo his doctors seemed to have erected in his camp. "Oh Jiminy Crickets!"

"No, Henry, they're chickens," Hawkeye corrected him.

"But very small," Trapper added, "so I can see why you'd be confused."

"I _know _they're chickens," Henry replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He had an air of defeat about him before he'd even begun. "And they're in my camp! In my _hospital_! I'm supposed to know everything that goes on in this place! What on earth were you two thinking? How did you think you could hide this and get away with it?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "I tightened my girdle and started wearing empire dresses."

Henry glowered at him. "I'm being serious."

"So are we. You see, Trapper and I are happy to get married, but only with your blessing."

"Cut the wise-cracks, Pierce," Henry snapped in what he hoped was his best commanding voice, the one he practised in front of the mirror when he thought no one was looking. "This is bad. I might have to get the MPs involved and then I'll be up to my nostril hair in paperwork. God knows where you two get off on these japes. Did you never think that someone might _need _these for their livelihood?"

It took a little while for the message to sink in, but when it did, Trapper sat bolt upright. The chicks on his chest tumbled into his lap and cheeped indignantly. "We didn't steal 'em!"

"Yeah Henry! How could you accuse us? We're no thieves! We're drinkers, layabouts, womanisers, lechers, perverts and lollygaggers, but thieves – no!"

Henry raised an eyebrow in Hawkeye's direction and began to tick off on his fingers. "Let's see. There was the time you stole Radar's teddy bear –"

"We only borrowed him. We were having a picnic."

"–And then there was the incident with Rosie's washing line–"

"We had to tie up Frank, Henry, he was drivin' us nuts."

"_Her underwear was still on it!"_ Henry's attempt at authoritative fury sounded more akin to a whining toddler.

"Well, Klinger needed a new slip." Hawkeye shrugged casually.

"And I won't mention the bottle of scotch that went missing from my liqueur cabinet."

"Good. If you won't mention it went missing, we won't mention that we drank it."

Henry sighed deeply. This he didn't need to practice; living with Pierce and McIntyre had enabled him to get exasperation down to a fine art. "Look boys, just be honest. Did you steal the chickens?"

"No! We found a crate of eggs at the market and Radar said there were chicks in them! Go ask him, he built us an incubator and everything!" Hawkeye flipped open his footlocker to reveal the peculiar contraption.

Henry peered into the box, recoiling at the smell that was either chicken shit or Hawkeye's old socks. He had absolutely no idea what he was looking at, which probably meant Radar had indeed been involved at some point. "Okay, okay, I believe you. But I've got Burns screaming at me about the smell, Houlihan is backing him up and saying they're a health hazard, and McIntyre over there doesn't even look like he's listening."

Trapper looked up like he'd been caught red handed. He had laid back again and was busy sprinkling a tiny pinch of bird seed onto his belly, watching the trio of chicks cluster around to nibble at it. Another two jumped up from Hawkeye's lap and scrambled up to join them. "It's feedin' time!" he explained.

"Look, I know it's no picnic out here, and I know we all need our hobbies, but they can't stay in here. Radar tells me he's buildin' a… uh…"

"Brood box."

"Yeah, that's the thing…. for 'em, and then pretty soon they're gonna need a proper coop. And that's _your _department. I need my company clerk back! Major Burns has moved into the V.I.P. tent and won't come back in until those chickens are outside where they belong!"

"Is that supposed to be our incentive?" Hawkeye watched as another chick leapt with surprising agility off his knee and onto Trapper's cot.

"Yeah," Trapper chipped in. "Because if you tell us that, we won't be buildin' a coop 'til next Christmas."

"Just get the damned coop built! 'Cos these things," he pointed to the baby birds that were now scrambling around Hawkeye for a boost onto Trapper's cot, "won't be this tiny and this cute for long!"

"We'll get right on it," Hawkeye replied without looking up. "Oh, and Henry?"

"What now, Pierce?"

"We were wondering if you wanted to be Godfather."

Henry sighed again and let the door bang shut as he left.

Trapper snorted as a tiny ball of feathers tumbled into his face. The snort became a laugh as he watched a dozen of the clumsy little creatures cluster around the pile of feed he'd made on his belly.

"I saw that," Hawkeye teased him.

"Saw what?"

"That smile. You _like _them."

"I didn't _smile_," Trapper replied, running his fingers over the fluffy feathers of one of the jet black chicks. "The feathers just tickled my nose."

* * *

"How's the coop lookin'?"

Trapper was just out of post-op, still in his white coat, stethoscope hanging from his neck.

"Better than my thumbs." Hawkeye held up a bruised and bloodied hand. "You know, I'm not entirely convinced this was one of Henry's better ideas. I'd love to know how I'm supposed to perform surgery with mincemeat instead of fingers."

"Look at it this way – at least you'll match the patients."

"It's taken me two hours just to do this one panel. It's infuriating." Hawkeye dropped a nail as he wrestled with the wire, and it landed in the brood box beside him. He fished around in the sawdust for it, and several feathered bodies clustered around his hand, excited and curious. "Good thing I had the Hawklets and Trapperlings for company."

Trapper raised an eyebrow. "'Hawklets and Trapperlings'?"

"Don't blame me! Margie came over to bring me some orange juice and _she _came out with it!" Trapper continued to stare at him. "Well, _look _at them." Hawkeye bent and scooped up a baby bird in each hand. One was jet black with hints of grey speckles just starting to show, the other was now a fawny brown, its yellow fluff darkening, and sleeker, patterned feathers beginning to grow in on its tiny wings. He held out the brown one towards Trapper, grinning. "See? They look just like their dad!"

Trapper did his very best to look sensible, and almost did a good job of it. "I am _not _their father!"

"How could you say that? You think I'd be unfaithful after everything we've been though?" Hawkeye cuddled the disgruntled birds to his chest and feigned offense.

"Put 'em down, Hawk."

"You're no fun."

"I said put 'em down!" A smile crept into the corners of Trapper's mouth and he gently took the birds out of Hawkeye's hands and set them down in their box. "You might drop 'em, messin' about with 'em like that."

Hawkeye grinned as he picked up his hammer and nails again. "You gonna give me a hand with this? Huh?" He prodded Trapper with his boot. "Hello, Doctor Doolittle?"

Trapper wasn't listening. He had sat himself down next to the brood box and was watching the Hawklets and Trapperlings scratch around in the sawdust with the most ridiculous contented smile on his face Hawkeye had ever seen.

* * *

Hawkeye sat beside the coop and mopped the sweat off his brow. It was an unpleasantly hot summer day and the ice in his drink was melting faster than he was.

"We're supposed to be mucking out," he reminded Trapper, who was sat on an upended bucket of feed. "I promised Father Mulcahy the orphanage could have the fertilizer for their vegetable garden."

"I'm gonna," Trapper protested. "Just writin' to my kids first."

"They can't read – they're only a couple of months old."

"I mean my daughters, not the goddamn chickens!" Quickly scrawling 'love from Daddy' at the bottom of the page, he handed Hawkeye the notepad and the envelope. "Seal that up, would ya?" He grabbed the broom and the bucket.

Hawkeye scanned through the letter, curious. A smile spread across his face. "You told the girls about them!"

Trapper shrugged. "I figured it's the kinda thing they might like to hear. There's not much I do in this place that I _can _share with 'em. I mean call me old fashioned but I don't think amputations and removin' shrapnel from kids' bellies make for great bedtime readin', y'know? But _this _is somethin' they'll like!"

Reading a little more, Hawkeye chuckled to himself. "I notice your early involvement seems to be a tad exaggerated. '_We _found them at the side of the road.' '_We _decided to keep them.' '_We _built a chicken coop.'"

"And '_we_' are supposed to be shovellin' chicken shit for the orphans and their radishes! Get that letter sealed and get your ass over here."

Hawkeye crammed Trapper's letter into its envelope and sealed it up, sidling up beside Trapper and stuffing it into his pocket for him. "I think I have a favourite," he confessed as he picked up the smaller brush and set to work. "I thought I might name her. Stupid, right?"

Trapper shrugged. He didn't think so. He had his own favourite – not that he was about to admit to that in front of Hawkeye. He glanced fondly at 'Brenda', who was now scratching away at the dust for any bits of feed that were lurking beneath the surface.

"I thought maybe 'Mathilda'. What do you think?"

"Pah!" It was Frank's voice that piped up as he sauntered past, hands in pockets.

"Somebody ask you, Frank?" Trapper leaned on his shovel and gave Frank a particularly evil glare.

"Grown men naming chickens! Whoever heard of anything so ridiculous?!"

Hawkeye glanced at Trapper, who looked for all the world like he was about to bean Frank with the shit-shovel. "Ten bucks said Frank's parents never let him have a puppy as a child."

"It would have messed up the carpet!"

The Captains exchanged knowing looks.

"People _do _name their pets, Frank."

"Yeah." Trapper pointed out his favourite. "See that one? That's Brenda."

"And that's Mathilda." Hawkeye gestured to the speckled black feathery lump sitting in the corner in the sun. "And the rooster strutting about at the back is MacArthur."

Frank squinted them. "How come a couple of whinging lefty peaceniks like you chose a name like 'MacArthur' for one of your precious chickens?"

Trapper smirked a little. "Because he's a cock – and 'Frank Burns' was taken."

Frank made a noise like an angry mongoose and stalked off in the direction he was heading before he's been distracted from his intended route.

"She's not home, Frank!"

Swiftly changing course without a word, Frank diverted off towards post-op instead. Hawkeye fell about laughing, and Mathilda clucked at him, amused by his antics.

* * *

"Oh aren't you just the cutest thing! Yes you are! Yes you are so cute! Oh go on, turn around and wiggle your tail again!"

"Don't you think you're moving a little fast, Margie?" Hawkeye stood up from where he'd been rummaging around in the nesting boxes and looked over at Nurse Cutler, who was hanging over the side of the coop fence. "At least buy me dinner first."

Margie stopped cooing at the chickens and stuck her tongue out at him. "I wasn't talking to you, silly," she replied, but with a smile that suggested she _could_ be, if he was holding what she thought he was holding. "Is it an egg, Hawk? Have they laid yet? Oh please tell me they have! I'm _dying_ for a cheese omelette."

Hands clasped to his chest as though containing something precious, Hawkeye walked over to Margie, who was positively bouncing with anticipation. He carefully opened his hands to show her. Nestled in his palms was incredibly small, somewhat misshapen, but undoubtedly an egg. "Our first one." The smile twitching at his lips quickly spread over his entire face. "We've got eggs!"

Margie stretched out a long finger to gently stroke the egg. "Oh gosh. It's so little!"

"Yeah, Radar said we might get a few practice ones at first. But once they get the hang of it, we'll be drowning in eggs!" He laughed gleefully.

"Startin' the fun without me, kids?" Trapper's voice, fresh from his shift in post-op, sauntered across the yard. He squeezed in between Margie and Hawkeye. "Hey, is that an egg?!"

"Very good, Trapper. Give him a few months and he'll have a full grasp of the English language," Hawkeye intoned to Margie, who giggled.

"Any idea who laid it?" Trapper asked, idly brushing a fingertip across the eggshell.

"Mathilda. I've noticed she likes the nesting box just by the door."

"Trust your kid to get herself into trouble."

Margie elbowed him in the ribs. "Hey! I think MacArthur might have had something to do with it, too." They looked over at MacArthur, who was fighting with Brenda over custody of a worm and losing quite spectacularly.

"We'll have to build him his own bachelor pad," Hawkeye mused. "I don't think I'm ready to be a grandfather yet."

By now Trapper had carefully removed the egg from Hawkeye's hand, and was tipping it from palm to palm. "Yeah, and I ain't havin' any more babies. Gettin' woken up to watch these guys hatch was worse than Louise!"

Hawkeye looked at him dolefully. "Oh, but _honey _– I always wanted a big family!"

"Yeah, they were so _sweet_ when they were little!" Margie concurred. "Are you _sure _you don't want more?" She matched Hawkeye's look and fluttered her lashes. Trapper glanced between the pair of them, and wondered if they had rehearsed this synchronised routine of theirs.

"You two are unbelievable!" Trapper sighed and walked off, hiding his amused grin. He was followed closely by Margie and Hawkeye, who fell into step beside him.

Margie plucked the tiny egg from Trapper's hand. "Oh go on! Wouldn't it be nice to have a few more chicks running about the place?"

"Oh no! Two children is more than enough."

"Yeah," Hawkeye smirked, "but Kathy and Becky are back in Boston."

"I'm talkin' about you two!"

Hawkeye and Margie grinned and giggled, and Trapper gave them both a playful swat as the two of them made their escape into the Swamp.


	3. Shelled

Shelled

**WARNING:** This chapter and onwards deals with darker themes.

* * *

The autumnal grey glow of dawn woke Hawkeye before his alarm got the chance. He was getting better at this morning thing, he thought. He was normally more of a night-owl, and early mornings were his nemesis, but his new routine over the past few months had given him that extra spring in his step to help get him out of bed at sunrise.

Not today, though.

The cold air nipped at his skin as he swung his legs out from under the blankets, and he tucked them back in for a moment, shivering. The first chill of the Fall had struck Korea.

"Trapper?"

The lump in the other cot didn't move. "No."

"But–"

"You're on the morning shift. Ergo, it's your turn. Wear your big coat, get your winter socks on, and quit yer noise. Some of us were in post-op 'til midnight."

Pouting, Hawkeye pulled his socks, pants, and pretty much every other item of clothing he owned on without leaving the warmth of his blanket. Eventually, he braved the outside world and shoved his feet into his boots. It would all be worth it when he was greeted by the usual flurry of feathers and excitement, he told himself as he pulled his parka around himself and set out into the compound with his bucket of bird feed.

But it was strangely quiet as he rounded the edge of the Swamp and began his morning stroll in the direction of the chicken coop, and the eerie silence chilled him far more than the frosty air ever could. His fingers tightened a little around the handle of his bucket, and he glanced about nervously. There was barely a sound, save for the hum of the generators and the rush of the breeze.

The coop sat silently in the middle distance, and an ominous feeling of dread began to churn and fester in the pit of Hawkeye's stomach. He quickened his pace, the bucket clanking and rattling at his side. The coop drew closer, and the feeling grew.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they were just quiet because of the cold morning. Maybe they slept more in the winter months. Maybe…

But all his hopes were dashed when he reached the coop. The wire was torn open, feathers strewn across the run, and the dirt was stained with blood.

A lump rose in Hawkeye's throat, and the bucket hit the ground.

* * *

Trapper didn't know what to say. They sat in the Swamp in silence, Hawkeye on his cot with his head in his hands, Trapper perched by the stove. Neither of them spoke, but the shock and grief was palpable. How ridiculous, Trapper thought. These were creatures they had raised purely for the food they provided, and they were grieving their loss like they had been family pets, loved and adored for years.

They shouldn't have named them, he thought.

"Maybe some of 'em ran off," Trapper said at last. "You know, they got spooked or somethin'. They might come back. You never know, right?"

Hawkeye looked at him, his gaze somewhere between misery and incredulity. "Right. You ever hear of a homing chicken?"

"Guess not." Trapper bit his lip. "But some might'a got away."

"That's not how foxes operate, Trapper," Hawkeye told him glumly.

Trapper just nodded. He was a city boy – what would he know about the predatory habits of foxes? Or any other wildlife for that matter.

He was spared the trouble of saying anything further when Frank rushed into the Swamp like a small khaki whirlwind of bureaucratic fury. "Pierce! Morning shift starts at 0700 – it is now seven twenty! I have been waiting in post-op for… What's the matter with you?"

His tone softened a little, and Hawkeye cancelled the quip he had started to prepare when Frank had seemed to struggle to calculate his twenty minute wait. "We lost our chickens," he explained glumly, not expecting much sympathy.

"Fox got 'em," Trapper added.

The announcement hung in the air.

Frank sniffed and fidgeted a little. "Well, you were due on shift twenty minutes ago, Captain, so..."

Hawkeye looked up. "_So_?!"

Frank chewed on his lower lip and gave an awkward little shrug. "So… would you like me to… uh… cover for you?" He placed a hand on Hawkeye's shoulder.

A stunned silence descended momentarily, and Trapper and Hawkeye exchanged glances. "If you could, that'd be great."

Frank nodded, a proud smile threatening to spread across his face, like he was pleased he'd done something nice. "Right." He turned to leave. "Not for too long, mind."

"I'll be as quick as I can. Just keep those patients warm for me."

The door banged closed and Hawkeye buried his face in his hands again.

* * *

Their respite was short lived. An offensive had been launched at daybreak, with heavy shelling, and within the hour they were tripping over stretchers in the compound. Hawkeye was almost grateful for the distraction as he spent the rest of the day up to his elbows in guts. Gradually, the deluge slowed to a trickle, and, as the adrenaline subsided, a weary Hawkeye sucked a slug of bitter instant coffee through a straw to try and keep himself going.

Radar held the mug for him, watching as the surgeon stitched his way along an open wound. "Sorry about your chickens," Radar murmured through the mask he was holding clumsily over his face with his spare hand. "Foxes are real tricky. We once lost a whole barn full to 'em. Chickens, ducks, geese. They got everyone."

"Thanks, Radar." Hawkeye didn't look up from his work, but his voice was kind and sincere. "I guess growing up on a farm you saw a lot of that sort of thing." Last stitch in place, he stood back. "Ok, I'm all done here. Find this man a nice seat in post-op with an ocean view and a south facing window." Relieved to finally be at the end of the long shift, he ripped off his gloves and mask. "Hell," he continued, shaking his head as he took the coffee cup from Radar's hands and downed the rest, "you're probably wondering why I'm being such a cry baby over the whole thing."

Radar dropped his mask – and his jaw. "Oh _no_! Jeepers, I'd never think that! I mean, even on a farm you still get kinda… y'know. I mean, they're your critters, and you love 'em. Just 'cos there's a lot of 'em, and some of 'em are kinda funny lookin' doesn't mean you don't get sad if something happens to 'em." He glanced over his shoulder and dropped his voice a little. "One year, I saw Uncle Ed slaughter a turkey, and I cried all the way through Thanksgiving dinner!"

Hawkeye mulled the thought over. "Yeah – but there's a difference between a little kid getting upset because he saw his dinner get the chop and a grown man crying over a handful of dead birds."

"I wasn't a kid – I was fifteen."

"Oh. Sorry. Well… yeah, that puts it in perspective I guess. Thanks, Radar." He managed a weak smile, feeling marginally less stupid now he knew he wasn't alone.

As Radar set about gathering x-rays for patient files, Henry sidled up. "Uh… Pierce?" His voice was low and cautious. "About your chickens…"

"Cards and flowers are currently being received at the Swamp," Hawkeye replied with a wave of his hand.

"It's not that." Henry coughed and shuffled the way he always did when he bore bad news. "I know this is a really lousy time, it's just that… You see, those… um…" He tried to find a suitable word, and failed. "Well, they're gonna start attracting pests, and I can't have that."

"Right."

"So I need 'em removed from this camp, stat."

Hawkeye nodded.

"And uh… I can't really spare any of the enlisted men right now after a session like that. We're up to our eyeballs here. So, could you…?"

Another nod, but Hawkeye's face fell. "I'll take care of it." He turned and walked away, sullen but co-operative.

Henry didn't patronize him with any further sympathies, and he was grateful for small mercies. Pushing open the door to the changing area, he was surprised to hear Frank's voice.

"… And I _did _have a puppy. But only for a little while." The Major's voice was slurring, he was so exhausted.

"Oh yeah?" Trapper responded, equally weary.

Hawkeye peeked around the corner. Frank was laid out on the bench under the coat hooks, half asleep. Trapper was leaning over the laundry basket, half in and half out of his scrubs. And he didn't seem to be faring much better. Frank had been the first to be let out of the OR, having already been awake for the night shift. Trapper had followed a few hours after, clearly flagging after a late night on the evening shift. Both men seemed to have made it no further than the changing room.

"I did," Frank was saying, his head lolling back and forth as he tried to fight sleep. "But my dad ran over it with the Buick. I cried for days."

"That's awful, Frank!" Trapper frowned and rubbed eyes. "Was he sorry?"

A derisive snort. "Nah. He just told me to stop being such a sissy."

Hawkeye announced his presence with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "Hey."

"Hiya, Hawk," Trapper mumbled into the laundry basket.

Frank made a noise that couldn't really be classed as words, but Hawkeye was fairly sure it sounded friendly.

"Sorry to crash the slumber party. Do either of you walking corpses want a hand getting back to the Swamp?"

Trapper waved a hand in the air. "Yo."

Frank mumbled again and closed his eyes.

"Let him sleep," Trapper advised. "He'll come home when he's good an' ready – unless Hotlips finds him first."

Frank sighed and wriggled on his bench. "Hmmmm… Margaret!"

Hawkeye managed a smile and a chuckle. "He's almost cute when he's like this." Taking a blanket from the clean stack, he draped it over Frank's sleeping form. "Night, Frank," he said softly. "I'm sorry about your dog."

Frank cracked open one tired eye. "I'm sorry about your chickens."

They left him to sleep and made their way a little unsteadily across the compound, leaning on one another. The grey half-light of dawn that they had left several hours ago when they had disappeared into the OR had now gone full circle and turned into the dusky blue of twilight. Hawkeye regarded the fading day with a frown, and stopped halfway across the dirt track.

Trapper glanced at him. "You comin'?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "You go on without me. There's something I've got to do first."

With a nod, Trapper took himself off for a lie down, and Hawkeye diverted off to supplies. It was dark inside, but he didn't need the light. He grabbed what he needed without having to even search. The shovel was kept just inside the door.

* * *

It was dark by the time the job was done, and Hawkeye limped back to the Swamp with sore, blistered hands and an aching back. He was surprised to find Trapper awake, curled up on his cot with a sports magazine.

"It's done," was all Hawkeye said as he slumped on the foot of his bed, elbows resting heavily on his knees.

Trapper looked up and frowned. "You should'a let me help."

"You needed your sleep."

"Fat lot of that to be had 'round here." Trapper punctuated his complaint with a yawn. The noise of the generators and evening chatter of the camp had woken him up three times while Hawkeye had been gone. He'd now given up and poured himself a Martini, which he sipped gratefully. "Drink?" he offered Hawkeye with a sympathetic smile.

Hawkeye shook his head. "I gotta be in post-op tonight."

They fell silent. Trapper's skills for sympathy ran out at practical assistance and cocktails. He never had the right words for anything else.

But Hawkeye filled the silence well enough, unprompted. "I really thought we hit on something here, you know? It was just what I needed in this place – our own little corner full of life in the middle of all this killing. Stupid, huh?"

"That's not stupid, Hawk."

"But nothing lasts. Not around here. Everything dies and decays. Death creeps its bony fingers into everything eventually. So what's the point?"

He scratched absent-mindedly at his elbow, his hand tucked up his sleeve. When he withdrew it, he was clutching a black, speckled feather. Trapper saw his face fall, but hadn't a clue what to say. It all seemed so foolish when you put it in perspective, and yet the loss weighed heavy on them both.

Sighing, Hawkeye propped his feet up on his cot and leaned back for a moment, turning the feather between his fingertips. "Matilda wasn't there," he said at last. "I buried the others. But I couldn't find her. I think the fox must have…"

He trailed off. The tears came from nowhere, unexpected and uncontrollable. He buried his face in his hands, embarrassed as the hacking sobs overwhelmed him. Trapper was on his feet in an instant. He may not have words for this, but he had arms, and he gave Hawkeye a comforting hug, perching on the cot beside him, trying to ignore the stinging in his own eyes as Hawkeye shook and sobbed on his shoulder.

"Sorry," Hawkeye sniffed, pulling away after a short moment. "You don't need this. Go get some sleep. I need to get to post-op before Henry falls asleep at the wrong desk." He wiped his eyes and got to his feet, feeling utterly foolish. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, zipping his coat up. "Here I am surrounded by all this death – kids getting shot and shelled and blown up – and _this _is what I'm crying over? I don't know why I'm getting so upset over a goddamn chicken."

He glanced once more at the feather he held in his fingers, then tossed it away. Trapper watched it flutter to the floor. By the time it hit the ground, the door had already banged closed, and Hawkeye was gone.


	4. Broken

Broken

_Three Years Later…_

The night air was hot and still. The sky above was clear, and a thousand stars shone down brightly, ignorant of what human tragedies played out beneath them. At the windows, several equally bright eyes peered out, curious and concerned, shining and glistening.

Hawkeye sat at the side of the road with his head in his hands. The bitter, acidic taste of bile still burned at the back of his throat, and his boots were streaked and spattered from where he had thrown up a few minutes before. He hadn't moved for some time. The events that had unfolded around him did so without anyone bothering him, and it was only now that anyone had even attempted to draw him out of the catatonic reverie he seemed to have retreated into.

"Hawkeye?" It was Margaret who spoke, laying a gentle hand on Hawkeye's arm. She tugged at him, repeating his name a few times. "Hawkeye, we have to go. We can't stay here."

At last, Hawkeye looked up. His cheeks were wet, his eyes wide, and his gaze unfocussed. His consciousness hovered somewhere in the mists of his addled mind, not quite with it, not quite here.

"Are you okay?" Margaret asked him, crouching beside him in the dust, her face wracked with concern.

Sniffing, Hawkeye wiped his face with one trembling hand. "Sorry. You don't need this."

"It's okay." Margaret's voice was gentle and tender, and she took his arm to help him to his feet. "It wasn't your fault."

He took a few shaky steps, with Margaret's help, muttering something under his breath. She thought she heard him mention something about Henry, but his head was down and his voice was too soft to make out his words. But he was moving, and that was something. She offered him a canteen of water, which he accepted with trembling hands, washing his mouth out and taking a few grateful sips to ease the burning in his throat. "This is the weakest gin I've ever tasted," Hawkeye said flatly.

Margaret forced a humourless laugh. If he was making jokes, that was a good sign, right? "See?" she said, wiping his face and lips with her handkerchief. "You're going to be alright. It's all going to be alright."

Hawkeye nodded, his eyes more focused now. "Sure I am," he said, his voice sounding a little more like himself. He smiled at Margaret and handed her back her canteen. "It'll be fine. _I'll _be fine." He turned away, and Margaret didn't catch his words as he walked away from her and stepped up onto the bus. "I don't know why I'm getting so upset over a goddamn chicken."


End file.
